


For When the Man Comes Around

by Justmethistime



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Depression, Suicide Attempt, family feels i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-02-29 20:29:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18785635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justmethistime/pseuds/Justmethistime
Summary: He can’t, though. Tim closes his eyes and waits, but he’s always stuck in in his head on his bed. He’s stuck in himself, all of the time, and he hates it even more than the exhaustion that he used to wear all of the time. He’s not busy for the first time in his life-- he’s run away from WE, he’s hiding from the Titans, he’s distant from the Batfamily, and he’s slacking off Red Robin-- but all he’s made room for in his schedule seems to be listlessly lying on his bed.orWhere Tim is heckin depresso man and his family tries to fix him.





	1. The Lonesome Bill Is Due

**Author's Note:**

> Might be a bit heavy? It was intended to be a bit heavy, at least. Caution? Talks about suicidal thoughts and stuff. Tim is not in a good place, guys. Starting out and then randomly spiralled as I kept writing.

Realistically, Tim tells himself to get a grip on it already. Really, it’s no big deal. In fact, it’s a good thing. Shows just how much progress everybody’s been making. 

Tim steps into the cave after a horrifyingly long night of conferences and board meetings and so much paperwork he still has to do that he just wants to tear his hair out and cry to find Bruce Wayne’s arms around the Demon Brat in a sort of cute embrace he didn't know any of them were physically capable of smack in the middle of the cave.

This is a wonderful thing, Tim thinks as he struggles, hard, not to be sick. Wonderful. He’d known for sometime that Damian was getting closer to his father and known that Bruce was getting more comfortable around his only biological child. Tim had just never expected, well, this or at least this so soon.

It’s not that he’s got anything against the Demon Brat or whatever (except that he kinda does), but the sight almost physically hurts him. He’s happy for them, actually, happy that Damian is finally reaching some point of getting along with his dad, happy that Bruce is able to express his emotions around and towards his kid. Tim’s happy. 

Well, Tim’s jealous, too.

For the longest time he can remember, Tim has always been left alone. His earliest memories as a toddler are of empty rooms and searching--he is on his hands and knees desperately searching for anyone to come find him through all of the hollow space that threatens to suffocate him in its stillness and cold and he’s--. Tim should be fine with it, by now. He should be used to it.

This latest round clearly just shows how he isn't, though. Bruce is on his knees, bent to Damian’s height, and Damian’s resting his head on his father’s shoulder as Bruce is bent down and whispering in his ear. His hands are clasped tightly around his father’s chest like he’s trying to smush them into one singular being. If Tim had to describe it in a word, it’d be love. Damian is loved. Bruce is full of love for his son.

The sight leaves Tim dizzy. It’s just another reminder of how he’s that lonely toddler crawling and desperate, just another reminder that his parents had to fly across the world to get away from him, how, not matter what he does and what he’ll ever do, he’ll never be able to ever measure up with anybody else who has worn the stupid red, yellow, and green.

It knocks the world right out from under Tim’s carefully polished shoes, trying to come to terms with a fact, heaving and heavy against him until he feels crushed under the weight of some much truth. Weakly, he wonders if they’ve even noticed he’s there yet. Distantly, he tries remind himself that he came here to change into tights and get onto the streets. He’s got to go help people.

And Tim’s really happy for them. He is. He totally is. He’s glad Damian is loved and he is glad Bruce can love him. 

(Something still worms in his chest though, digs and digs and digs until it finds his heart).

It’s the same feeling he gets when he watches Bruce and Jason interact, when Bruce rips off his cowl and says to Jason I’ll always be proud of you and it’s never too late to come home, son.

It’s the same feeling he gets when he watches Bruce and Dick, when Dick looks at Bruce and suddenly it’s like they’ve both gained telepathy or something because they know everything the other is thinking. 

It’s what he feels when he catches Dick and Damian playing video games together, or when he finds Jason and Dick making competitions out of beating up criminals. It’s the hole inside his chest every time he walks by a room and notice all of them curled up on a couch, munching popcorn, and gazing intently at some bloody action film, curled into each other so tightly it’s like they’ve been bound-- without him.

The natural bond, Tim can see the love and trust and holds himself back from running into some private corner to cry and cry because he’s been left behind again. He’s useless. He’s unneeded and unwanted, save for the fact that they hadn’t even noticed he was there to kick him out. The hanging fifth wheel.

He’d known it then, all the way back when he was a toddler or when he was seven or eight or five. He’s known it every second of his existence, almost, every time someone walks by or looks at him or sits down or even just lives because everything is a reminder of how unlovable Tim is. How useless. How obsolete.

He is used to being a replacement and being replaced and being different from the rest. He is used to being slow and clumsy and too clever to not realize that this wasn't where he was required to be. He’d once resented his parents for leaving him all alone in that big house. He now wondered why the Waynes hadn’t already violently told him to leave.

(Well, maybe they had. Maybe that’s what Bruce means when he berates him for a bad job done, what Dick was trying to do when he gave Robin away, how Jason really did mean to kill him. Maybe Damian really does want him gone.)

Tim hates this feeling, not just because it feels really nasty, but because of how completely unfair it is. He wants to barge in and demand to be loved, wants to run in and scream and tell them how he really feels, tell them he can’t take it anymore, and break down like he’s been on the verge of this this all started and wait for someone to pick him up again. Desperate and desolate. He wantswantswants-- No. They didn't ask for you to ruin their moment like this. It’s not their fault you’re a pathetic excuse for a human being. 

The thought of patrol turns his blood to ice. He almost can’t stand to move his limbs anywhere and force his body into action. Better leave them alone for tonight, Tim figures, and I might as well get started on all that paperwork. 

He slips as quietly as any shadow back through where he came from. The father and son continue on as if they didn't even know he was there.

He stays on his bed for the rest of the night. Tim crams sheet after sheet of forms, diagrams, plans, and dollar signs through his exhausted brain until he just can’t take it anymore and tries to fall asleep. It never works. He’s tossing and turning and every little thought he has seems to spiral and spiral until he realizes he won't ever be able to fall asleep like this so he just resigns himself to lying in bed.

It feels like his brain has shut down in the morning when he’s expected to get up and start his day like everyone else. It feels like it’s completely off and so he’s just kind of lying there, even though he can hear the sound of Alfred making breakfast and Dick brushing his teeth. Jason’s arguing with Damian again and part of Tim wants to join in on the conversation, but another part of him has yet to even comprehend the fact that he is awake.

Tim has always survived due to his strong will. It’s how he got Robin, how he survived as Robin, and how he continues to do what he does. It’s his sleep substitute and his spine when it comes to facing enemies down, it’s gone toe to toe with Ra’s al Ghul and won, and, quite frankly, he’s really nothing if not a strong will. 

Tim just cannot make himself get out of bed. He physically can’t. 

It’s like last night all over again, the pervasive lead in his limbs, the frozen breaths, how his unlovability seems to rise to the surface of his skin again and sing their presence, clawing inside him until Tim is sure he’s covered in bruises all over.

He feels tired and worn and numb. He closes his eyes and wants to sleep but they find the image of Bruce’s arms around yellow Robin cape instead and he seems to slip deeper into that oblivion: looks exchanged from beneath a blue domino, watery eyes peeking out from under mask at the words of an unmasked man in black and a cape, fingerstripes carding through soft black hair. Love. His family.

He feels numb and foolish and useless. Ashamed. 

(Tim is angry too. They would be nothing if not for him and still he’s just lying here and waiting to die. Tim is angry. Tim--

Tim hates himself for being angry. It’s not his right. Heroes should be selfless and brave, always sacrificing, always giving themselves up before others. Never asking for impossible things of others like Tim does all the time.)

Tim wants to just lie here, in bed, lie here and forget all about the world waiting for him. He just wants to stay here in his own lethargy and let himself be comforted by the sheer nothingness of it all.

 

It’s a few more weeks after that incident before Tim really takes a minute to breathe and think that something is really wrong with all of this. He’s barely been back to the manor since that afternoon when he finally managed to gather the energy to get himself out of bed and had run away to the sanctity of his Perch as fast as he could. He’s barely seen any of them either, taking care to avoid their patrol routes and dodging invitations to dinners and movie nights in a way that would have made Neo proud. 

Once, they might’ve made his whole day cause, well, somebody wanted him. Somebody was inviting him somewhere. Now, they just seem to shut even more of him off. 

And, damnit, no matter how hard he tries, Tim feels shut off. He takes a break from WE because he actually physically can’t take it anymore and Tam’s more than capable. He emails his intentions in and can almost picture the faces of his fellow board members as they sigh in relief. Tim has been slipping for a while. They need somebody who can be all the way there and all the way competent to lead the company and make them even richer.

Tim would hate their smug faces if he had enough energy. 

The thing is: Tim is not too busy for once. Tim is not too swamped too take care of himself. And, believe it or not, Tim loves sleeping and not feeling like crap all of the time.

He can’t, though. He closes his eyes and waits, but he’s always stuck in in his head on his bed. He’s stuck in himself, all of the time, and he hates it even more than the exhaustion that he used to wear all of the time. He’s not busy for the first time in his life-- he’s run away from WE, he’s hiding from the Titans, he’s distant from the Batfamily, and he’s slacking off Red Robin-- but all he’s made room for in his schedule seems to be listlessly lying on his bed.

He does this on a cycle (lie in bed, lie in bed, some food, lie in bed, Red Robin, come home to lie in bed, lie in bed some more, repeat) for nearly a month before something in him clicks that it isn't right.

Briefly, the thought that he should tell someone crosses his mind. Tim squashes it down in an instant, stepping on it like one would a bug. He’s been fine on his own for all his life and this is a distinctly Tim problem. Why should it be any different?

(Because he is numb. He lies in bed and feels nothing, but he feels nothing because sadness and loneliness have left him too. H wants desperately for someone to come and find him, to look after him, and reassure him that he is loved, but the door hasn’t been opened in months and nobody ever comes. He wants and he wants and he wants--)

It’s already Friday and he’s only gone on patrol once this week. He’s (letting people down) tired.

Tim’s slept maybe two hours all week? His coms beep. Blearily he responds.

“O? What’s up?”

“Red. We’ve got a situation near main and third. Riddler-”  
“You mean the explosion I just saw?”

“Yeah. Security cams say at most forty guys, shouldn’t be too professional.”

“Good. I got this one,” Tim dizzily stars getting a move on, “don’t worry.”

“Be careful,” and then she pauses, unsure, “I’m sending Nightwing for backup.”

“What? Don't trust me to take care of Riddler?”

“No, I do. It’s just, well, you’ve been kinda off your game for a while now.”

Something in his chest stutters at that, appalled by the implication that he’s failing. He hates it. He knows it’s true, of course, but he hates in anyways.

“You should mind your own business, O. Red Robin out.”

Part of him feels guilty that he could say something like that to Barbra, especially since she was only trying to help. He kills that feeling too. He hateshateshates the failing, and besides, he doesn't want her pity. He doesn't deserve her pity. 

It’s only a little while later that, when Tim’s on the verge of passing out due to sheer exhaustion, that he really starts to regret snapping cause, well, he is actually completely in over his head. He’s got a sprained ankle, been kicked a couple of times in the ribs, suffered a minor concussion, and he just. wants. to. sleep. 

Maybe he could have handled this a few weeks ago. Maybe it would have been a piece of cake, afterall it is the Riddler they’re talking about here. He might be good at riddles, but his choosing of henchmen and fighting ability are subpar, at best. Well, none of that matters know, Tim figures, considering how he’s going to be dead in the next five seconds. He’s pinned down behind some crates and the goons with machine guns are closing in fast.

Some part of him just wants it to be over, to be quick and painless and for him to be gone in a flash. It would be so easy: just stay where he is and close his eyes. He hopes someone finds his bullet-ridden body after and sends it to Batman somehow so he can have a good burial. It’s probably too much to ask for.

Tim is tired. Until, he’s suddenly not. 

Now, Tim’s always been good at distancing himself emotionally from his work. He’s the smart one, the planner, cunning and cold, downright ruthless and surgical when he needs to be. They all know him as logical and, heck, he knows the biggest trait about himself is his logic. He’s so good at it it seems like they forget sometimes that he even has emotions.

Tim is tired. Until, he’s angry.  
He feels like he’s exploding, weeks and weeks of bottled up this and bottled up that, growing and swelling, groaning to be free of his body’s limitations stretches inside him. He’s angry. He’s furious. He’s so done with everything, all the bullshit and lies and his numbness--failures and failures and failures twisting into all he’ll ever be.

Tim is fucking angry and he’s fucking done with this life thing if all it’s going to give him is this inescapable, blanketing depression.

He tenses, behind the dull wood crates, takes a deep breath in, and comes out swinging, hard. He can barely see anything through the smoke and the fire burning all around, but he’s all knees and flailing. Wild fish drowning on land, but every so often he hits something and somebody hurts and it’s enough to keep him going, running on the fumes of fumes as he is.

Then, out of nowhere, he goes down. A solid body breaks his fall and Tim nearly cries with relief because you came for me, but then a beefy arm loops tightly around his neck and Tim is, he needs, air-air-air--.

Figures, it was just a guy failing to tackle him properly. Just his luck, of course. Don't know why he accepted anything else.

Back to the problem at hand. Tim needs to lock up all of his sad thoughts for when he’s at the Perch and alone to take out of the box and examine. Unless, of course, he doesn't do that either and just lets them stew in the back of his mind with the others for the rest of his life. The rest of his life, oh wait. He’s literally being strangled to death right now.

Focus, Tim, you’re dying. 

But he finds that he doesn't mind. He’s spent years imaging how it was going to be, how he’d feel, whether he was scared or not. It used to one of the things that would frequent his nightmares: Bruce is too late again and Tim is hopelessly alone, just tied up and waiting for it. Going out with a boom.

It’s almost nice, slipping out like this. Peaceful, no blood and no guts. Just a quasi-embrace he can almost believe is his father’s, warm arms around him, nothing to lose and nothing to gain. Just a quiet end to a quiet little boy with the loudest mind of any.

No, Tim finds that all of his anger left with his air. He doesn't mind this at all.

Maybe, something inside him says, it’s the only way you could have ever left Batman and the Robins. Distance, and then a quiet death. A nice funeral, maybe even some small grief, but no obligations to keep calling after. No awkwardness and certainly no leaving Tim behind. If anything, this way he gets to leave them behind.

Just as his eyes slip shut, though, and he takes what he thinks is his last look at the world, a dark silhouette holding two sticks comes charging towards him, running closer and closer, blurring before his vision until the black just mixes seamlessly into the darkness that is awaiting him.

It’s nothing, Tim decides. He was born at home, Drake manor, where he entered the world and was promptly swaddled in blankets and then whisked off for some member of the staff to take care of, lest he disturb even more of Jack and Janet’s time. And he will die here, the floor of some random warehouse in Gotham’s worst parts, wrapped securely in the body of some nameless one of Riddler’s henchmen. 

On the floor beside him, his hand twitches, just once, and then falls entirely limp and useless. Tim Drake knows no more.


	2. The Mournful Day is Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More sad Tim, my poor dude. Trigger warning for suicide attempts and the like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoooops. Took me forever to post. Bu I promise the next part will be faster. And soon. Thanks if you're still reading, I guess.

Tim Drake is dead. He knows this to be absolutely certain. D-E-A-D. Dead. As in, no longer breathing. As in, never going to wake up again. 

So why is he breathing and waking up again?

His head feels like it’s exploding and it’s like there’s something sitting on the left side of his chest. His leg aches and nausea grips him as the world around him spins.

In short, Tim feels absolutely awful. 

He’s lying on a bed in the medbay corner of the Batcave, which, by the way, how the heck did he end up in the Batcave? The last things Tim remembers is an arm around his throat and the light of warehouse fires drifting him slowly off to sleep. He should not be here. Dead people don’t just wake up again.

Unless, they aren’t dead, of course. Tim’s pretty sure he’s dead, though. He had felt so at peace, then. All bundled up and waiting to be shipped out to some other world beyond the realm of this existence. He had wanted it all to be done.

But now he’s here, with pain flaring up all over his body and a mountain of questions on what-the-hell-happened.

The machine measuring his heart rate beeps beside him and he pulls the wires off his chest. Tim feels annoyed. It’s pretty obvious by this point that he’s alive.

He struggles to blearily sit up. The cave is spinning and it’s certainly not doing any favours to his already painful ribs. He gasps in a breath just as the door opens and Dick-fricken-Grayson rushes in. 

“Woah, Tim. It’s ok, you’re safe,” Dick coaxes while gently pushing him to lie back down onto the bed, “ You’re fine. Just a couple of cracked ribs and some cuts on your leg. Try not to move for a while, ok?”

Tim figures trying to escape is a lost battle at this point. He slumps back down. 

“Wha-” and there’s this unimaginable pain when he tries to speak, like someone cut out his vocal cords and replaced them with knives. He reaches for his throat.

“Hey, don’t touch. You’ve got some pretty nasty bruises around your neck, Timmy. Some guy had you on the ground with his arm around your neck. It’s going to be hell to talk for a while.”

And-- oh fuck-- Dick must have found him then. Oracle must have called him in after he’d expressly told her Red Robin could handle it. He’s not sure what hurts more, the apparent lack of faith Barbara has in him, or the fact that he definitely doesn't deserve her faith.

What he’d been planning to do. 

“Bruce is out for the night, but he’ll be back soon so hang tight, ok? He’ll want to check up on you and get the full report.”  
TIm nods. He knows what will happen will Batman comes home with that Demon Child of his and tells him he’s not good enough. How he failed.

Tim just wants to be alone right now. He wants to retreat quietly to his Perch, where it will be just him and he can sooth over his own wounds and shame without having to face the consequences of his failings read out to him by the only father he had ever known.

And plus, Damian will be here with Bruce and he’ll have to deal with that additional basket of emotions. 

“Hey, Timbo. You ok? You look kinda zoned out right now.”

And Dick’s looking at him again, his eyes crinkled. If Tim didn’t know any better, he’d call it concern, that Dick cared for him. He’s seen it enough to know that it’s not though. It’s guilt and pity layered over each other, mixing together until they are practically the same thing. 

I am sorry I wasn't there for you, you poor weak thing. You are not strong like me and I wasn't there to protect you, sorry, sorry. Sorry.

Tim would give anything for Dick to stop looking at him like that.

It hurts even to breathe, much less talk, so Tim motions for a pen and pad.

Could you go get me a glass of water and a popsicle?

“Of course, baby bro. Any particular flavour?”

Tim shrugs. Dick leaves.

The second he steps out the door, Tim shoots up off the bed, injuries be damned. There’s no way in hell he’s staying in time for B to return. He can do whatever he wants with his own life, thank you very much. He doesn’t need B telling him how badly he messed up. He can do that for himself just fine.

(And also, if they can see that he can get up, that he can keep going, he might not be so much of a failure. Tim’s not weak, he’s not.)

(But he is. Just the thought of seeing Bruce again, or Damian… how Bruce wrapped himself around his son and held on tight. Told him he loved him.)

(Being back in the manor is not helping anything at all. He needs to be back at his Perch. He should have just died in that warehouse.)

Tim’s ribs are literally on fire right now and his steps feel sluggish and slow, but he knows he needs to get out. And fast, cause it’s not going to take Dick long to return.

He traverses the cave rather quickly for someone of his injury and finds Redbird. His legs are shaking by the time he sits down and starts the engine. He can already hear Dick making his way down the stairs.

“Red Robin, authorization code R3-8739. Open up chamber 7, please.”

There’s a hollow thud as the door opens. Tim speeds out.

“Tim? What are you doing? Tim!”

Dick rushes into the cave carrying a pink popsicle and a tall glass of water, but all he finds is an empty bed and the sound of a motorcycle speeding away.

 /p>

The feeling of wind in Tim’s hair is nice, but all he wants to do is sleep. The cuts on his legs don’t hurt too much but the way his ribs ache is leaving with spots in his vision every time he tries to breathe. 

When did everything get so complicated? A day ago he was peacefully at home, lying down and staring at the wall while musing over his inadequacies. Tim just wants that now, to lie down and forget about everything. Wants it more even, because he’d been so close to complete oblivion and now they know and he can’t ever go back.

Judging by the light in the sky, Bruce will be back at the manor soon. Tim guns the motorcycle to go even faster.

He makes it back to the Perch in record time and arms the security. It’s designed to be able to keep even the Bats out.

He’s so tired. The pain drags at him, but he almost finds he doesn’t mind.

It reminds him of unnamed thug who held him as he lay there dying, stealing the life out of him. Peaceful. Nice. An end.

He collapses onto his bed and closes his eyes. There’s not much else he can do.

Tired as he is, he still can’t seem to fall asleep. It seems that whatever had kept him awake for days at a time these past few weeks was still hanging over him now.

His throat stabs at him with every breathe, his ribs ache and ache, the cuts on his leg sting, and he’s beginning to develop a throbbing headache, but the energy that compelled him to run off seems to have left him now.

Tim’s back in the cycle. He can’t move again. He can barely breathe again.

He’s back to being plain old failure Tim again. Bone-tired.

Ache and ache and ache and ache.

(They should be here by now, storming his door, here to make sure he’s ok. They should be here and Tim wants them desperately to be. He wants Bruce to fold him in his arms and tell him that he’ll never let this apathy get him, ever again. That he’ll be alright. They aren’t coming, though. Tim knows this. They’ve got bigger, more important things to take care of. Tim sits on the backburner and waits and waits.)

 

It’s almost four days later when he finally moves again. He can’t even feel the pain anymore in his cracked ribs and cut legs. Realistically, he knows it’s still there, that four days aren’t nearly enough time for them to be fully healed, but he can’t feel it, anymore. It’s like his body has long since stopped caring.

To be honest, it is a relief. Pain is a only a reminder of what he’s lost and now that it’s gone, he feels… disconnected. Like nothing he does even matters anymore. 

He spent those four days just lying in bed, not eating, drinking, or showering. Certainly no Red Robin. This too feels like a relief because he can almost pretend he’s already dead, that he’s already left and all he needs to do now is simply end it.

At the rate he’s going, he could simply starve himself to death. It’s been weeks since he’s eaten a proper meal and it would just be so easy to continue to lie on his bed, silent and unmoving, until death finally claimed him. He can’t even feel the pain, anymore, bundled up in blankets and waiting.

He’s scared, though, that his body will be here forever, that if he just lets himself die like this that no one will know and he’ll just stay here, forever. Tim just wants a little bit of peace in the ground, where this nothingness that he’s in right now will never be able to get him again, surrounded by all that dirt. 

He’s scared Bruce and the others will never know because Tim’s so selfish and wants them to mourn him. He wants to be remembered.

Better another way, then. Something fast and brutal. 

Slitting his wrists? Tim doesn't know if he has enough strength left for that. 

Walking around Gotham with money at night? No. Tim doesn't want to get anyone else involved.

Falling it is then. Quick and painless and he so wants to fly one last time. It’s perfect.

Tim moves for the first time in four days for his grappling gun, hung on his Red Robin suit downstairs. 

He’s filled with a certain energy in him, now, where before there was only his self-hatred and a void he couldn’t fill. It’s the most alive he’s felt in so long, actually, he muses as he goes to die. It’s nice.

Somehow he manages to stumble onto the rooftop with his grappling gun and weak legs from hunger. Light spots dance in his vision and it threatens to derail his entire plan.

No. He will not be deterred from this. This is the only thing that matters.

The rooftop of the Perch is much too low to jump from so he starts swinging his way across the city, making for the tallest building in Gotham.

Wayne Enterprises Tower.

He worked there, once. Spent his days trying to be a good employee, a good CEO. Someone Bruce could be proud of. It feels like a lifetime ago, to be honest. Distant and so removed from him now.

There is only one thing that matters.

I just want to fly one more time. 

(And still an even more selfish part of Tim knows this isn't completely true.)

(He wants Bruce to know and feel guilty. He wants Dick to realize his mistakes. He wants Jason to say he’s sorry. I want Damian to face some consequences.)

(He wants them to hurt because he couldn’t make them love him as he loved them and Tim hurts hurts hurts, so bad.)

Tim knows just how selfish this is. It’s not their fault at all he is unlovable.

(But he hurts and hurts and hurts. They said they’d be there for him. What a fool he was to believe them.)

It’s not their fault--

Gotham is gorgeous today, really. It’s a full moon and a rare day when the clouds aren’t covering the whole entire sky. If he squints hard enough, Tim can almost imagine seeing stars. 

He is glad today is beautiful. It’s a nice last view of the city he is dying trying to make better.

There is nothing more important than this, Tim reminds himself. Just a little bit further.

Dawn is starting to peek its head when he arrives on top of the tower, just barely a glimmer. 

The city isn’t awake yet, but it will be soon. The twinkling lights of Gotham are beneath him and it’s just Timothy Drake standing in a rumpled hoodie and baggy pants on the tallest building in this fucked up city holding a grappling gun and the wind ruffling his hair.

What he is about to do.

He remembers how it went the last time he tried this and almost flinches. He will not wake up in the cave ever again. This must work.

Tim closes his eyes and remembers the peacefulness that had enveloped him, takes a deep breath, and jumps off.

The wind’s whispering, but otherwise the world is silent and quiet, coming up to meet him faster and faster. 

He’s almost at the end when--

“Hey! I got you, Mister. Just gonna-- Holy shit. Tim? What the fuck--.”

Of fucking course. The universe just can’t give him a fucking break, can it? Jason Todd has to show up right about now.  
Ten seconds later and he could have been free, already. 

Tim drops his gaze down and tries not to cry. He was so close.

“Timothy Drake-Wayne. I’m going to ask you again. What the fuck was that? What shit were you just trying to pull there?”

They’ve reached the neighbouring rooftop at this point. Jason sets him down, but doesn’t stop staring at him, as if daring him to go try it again.

Tim can’t find anything to say.

“Fucking look at me, Babybird. What the fuck was that?” Jason all but screams at him.

Ah, what the hell, Tim figures. Might as well make a run for it. It’s not like there’s anything else that can go wrong.

Tim springs up, ready to run off the edge and jump again. 

As he takes a step, however, the world suddenly tilts and leaves him stumbling.

“Woah, shit. Are you-- sit back down. now.”

There’s the something sharp TIm knows is in Jason, although he can’t even comply with this simple request however, as it seems all those days of not eating are finally catching up with them.

He hears himself groan but Jason’s arms are around him again, breaking his fall, and the world goes dark once more.

 

Tim wakes up to someone running their fingers gently over his hand. It’s nice and relaxing, to be honest, making him feel like he’s slowly sinking in as he comes to. 

His eyes flutter open and he can see-- Dick. The older man’s got his Nightwing suit sans the gloves on, petting his hand. Tim can see sweat beads hanging off of his hair.

Just back from patrol, then, his mind supplies. 

Just great. An audience for the inevitable fuck-up of Tim Drake. What’s new?

“Go away, Dick.”

“Like hell I will! What the fuck just happened? Just-- fuck, kid. What did you think would happen?”

“Tim. What the fuck did Jason just stop you from doing?”

Dick’s voice trembles. Tim stares intently at the table by his bedside.

“Where the fuck have you been? Why did you run? Tim?”

Tim remains silent, determined to hang on to this last shred of dignity. if he stays silent, this will blow over. If it blows over, they’ll all forget about it. If they forget about him, he’ll be alright.

They won’t have to know just how fucked up he is inside.

“Tim, hey. Look at me buddy. What were you doing on that roof? Are you ok?”

“Tim. Tim,” Dick finally explodes, “ Tim, answer me, goddamnit! What the hell were you thinking, trying to kill youself?”

“I said, go away, Dick. I’m fine.”

Dick drops his head into his hands, “Tim, we both know you aren’t.”

“Doesn’t matter. I will be. And anyway, don’t you have somewhere else to be? A certain demon boy looking for his favourite brother?”

Dick’s mouth twists at that, clearly guilty. 

Something in Tim just explodes at that, that last straw on top of his enormous pile. The confirmation that he isn't the priority after all. It’s clear where Dick really wants to be.

It tears him up inside. Tim feels snappish and mean. Scorned yet again.

It doesn’t matter. Tim cannot possible hurt anymore. 

“I said I’m fine, didn’t I? Besides, it’s not like your going to get anything out of me, anyway. Go be where you really want to be, I don’t care. Do us both a favour.”

Dick’s eyes wrinkle this time, torn between being there for Tim or for his darling Damian. The little brother he actually wants.  
And, fuck, Tim’s angry again. Not even a suicide attempt can make Dick pick him over Damian.

“Hey, hey. It’s not like that. It’s just, Dami took a couple of hits a few days ago. Still kinda in critical condition. Hasn’t woken up yet”

“Get out, Dick. Go.” 

“Tim, no. It’s not like that. I love you. I’m not just going to leave you. Not when you’re like this.”

Tim feels like his heart’s about to explode. Dick just doesn't get to say this stuff to him, not after all he’s done.

A few days ago, if Dick had walked into the room Tim was laying in and said these things to him, Tim would be over the moon. He had so desperately craved for some scrap of affection from anyone. 

But that was days ago. That was another Tim, it feels like. 

If Tim was hollow before, now he is filled with burning hot anger.

Maybe he was always this angry. Maybe he wouldn’t have let it grow like this before. 

\--It feels in truth, nice to be this angry. Tim hasn’t felt anything in so long--

But this is now and Dick can’t just leave him alone for months and the come back and say shit like this to him.

Not when Tim still wants him to, but knows how false it is. 

“You’re not going to leave me? You already left! Now, Just get out Dick. Go sit by the bedside of your brother.”

“No, Tim, no. You’re my brother too. I love you.”

“Shut the fuck up and leave.”

Sure, the guilt is started to worm it’s way up into him as well. After all, Damian is a kid and he is injured. It’s not fair of him to say such things. Not fair at all.

But Dick shouldnèt have to stay with a boy he doesn't want to stay with while his brother’s hurt. Bruce put him up to this, Tim knows it. Dick feels obligated to help him out. He shouldnèt have to. 

It’s too late now. Dick’s already out of his seat and heading towards the door, all the fight having left him. He looks happy to be set free from the obligation of staying with Tim.

Suddenly, he’s overwhelmed with that old childish desire of his again. To be held and loved--

Dick’s already out the door. 

Tim desperately wants him to turn back, wants Dick to pick to stay by an awake Tim and not a comatose Damian. Wants Dick to run his fingers over his hand again, reminding him he’s really real and really there, to tell him he’s loved one more time….

No. Tim doesn’t deserve to be selfish like that. Especially since he just shouted at him to leave.

It’s not like it’s true anyway.

And besides, Dick needs to leave for Tim to be able to finish what he started on the roof. 

Tim just wants to close his eyes and drift off, to somewhere far far away, free of all this hurt...


End file.
